


Breakout

by cy_chase



Series: Malibu Avengers [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hockey, M/M, Malibu Avengers is totally a thing, wtf feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:52:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cy_chase/pseuds/cy_chase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has spent half his life working toward the Stanley Cup.  </p>
<p>The Malibu Avengers might finally be the team to take him there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakout

**Author's Note:**

> This is...ridiculous, it is. But this fandom? Hell, I will never have the weirdest AU, so why not?
> 
> No significant warnings, except that I don't think I'm done here. Everybody wants a freaking origin.
> 
> THANKS FEELS IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT

**1994**

Philip Coulson is 11, nearly 12, and his house is _loud._

_scraaaaaaape_

"Philip! Stop it, I'm on the phone!" Lydie is 16, and always yelling at her younger siblings, at their parents, into the phone, at nothing in particular. He's used to it, and drags another puck over as her upstairs window slams shut.

_scraaaaaaape_

"PHILIP!" Barry's 13, and he bellows. "MY HELMET'S NOT IN MY BAG, WHAT DID YOU-- OH, NEVER MIND, FOUND IT!" Philip drops his stick and jogs down to the net, stretching under the arm of the goalie target to recover his pucks.

_scraaaaaaape_

"DINNER, PHILIP!" Jake and Jessica are on the front stoop, doing that thing where they yell in unison, which Lydie always tells them is creepy but Philip doesn't mind, and they're only 7, which is too little to be mean to, yet.

"I'm practicing," he says over his shoulder, and he knows Jess will go inside to tell, and Jake will stay, watch.

_scraaaaaaape_

"It's almost dark," Jake points out, but Philip doesn't care; the light spilling into the driveway from the windows of the house are enough. He doesn't want to go inside, anyway, not when the air is just chilly enough to feel like the rink, and his stick's gripped _just right_ in his hands. The house is overfull and overwarm, and all that waits for him in there is nagging about his homework (already done) and the messy room he shares with Barry and Jake.

"Last one," he murmurs, and turns to glance at the youngest Coulson, who beams a gaptoothed grin.

"Five-hole!" Jake orders.

_scraaaaaaape_

**1998**

Philip starts his junior year of high school at Lanphier High in Springfield, Illinois, still a little shellshocked from the realization that he was _drafted_. Sure, it was junior hockey, and Tier II at that, but Phil had never really considered playing hockey after high school, much less professionally. Now, even at 16, he can _taste_ the potential, and he wants to play, and win, and _keep playing_ more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life.

His billet is quiet. The Smiths' son is playing minor hockey in New England, and Phil sleeps in his old room, the walls covered with posters of Gretzky, Lemieux, Messier. He's never had his own room, and he's never done his homework in absolute silence. They have weights in their basement, and he spends an hour down there every morning, and an hour before he goes to bed every night with nothing but his own breathing in his ears

Phil misses his family, but he isn't sure he ever wants to go home again.

**2002**

It's his sophomore year at Harvard, and Phil still hasn't been home. He played a year in Springfield, a year in the US Hockey League in Lincoln, and now he's in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Some mornings, walking to class with the satisfying, ( _addictive_ ) achy rub of a blocked-shot-bruise against his clothing, he has to stop and just _look_ , wonder at being on this campus.

He never told anyone he wanted to go to Harvard when he was a kid, because nobody would've believed he was serious, or that he could do it. Nobody ever really paid attention to his straight As. Maybe they assumed he was just very careful about his hockey eligibility, and with four other kids, his parents had plenty to worry about - he had learned when the twins were born how to not be one of those worries. He isn't always sure that he's comfortable with hockey taking him to Harvard rather than his brain, but then he steps out onto the ice wearing crimson, and he loses breath every time the crowd roars and he feels deep in his gut how desperately he loves this game.

**2006**

He never sees the hit coming. Later, he thinks that's obvious, because if he _had_ seen it coming, he could've protected himself. But it was the start of his third season in Toronto, and he was just getting over being shellshocked because he got _drafted_ by the _Maple Leafs_ and even as a rookie it seemed like the whole city knew who he was. Maybe it was overconfidence that caused his lapse in observation, or maybe just bad luck. But either way, he was going for a puck at the boards, and then there was a sharp pain in his neck, radiating down his spine, and then there was nothing.

He comes to to blue eyes, a worried murmur of, "Coulson?" and then the eyes are gone and hands are on him and there are lots of questions, and all he can do is stare, terrified, because he's numb all over.

He has a broken vertebra, it turns out, and the numbness and paralysis are temporary, but it takes him a year to rehab. He spends it back at Harvard, with world-class doctors and open facilities, and it's not nearly as bad as he would've expected. He also gets a divorce, and that's almost a relief, because his (ex-) wife doesn't want him to return to the pros. Phil doesn't blame her, but he can't fathom settling down and coaching and running camps the rest of his life now that he's tasted the NHL. He wasn't raised to give up, and somehow it never occurs to him that he _did_ give up the chance at a family and a normal life to chase the Stanley Cup.

**2010**

Coulson sits in the front-center of the conference room, his team around him, and listens to the owners announce that they've just been sold. Phil has been an Atlanta Thrasher for three years, has helped take them to the playoffs for the first (and so far only) time. He's an alternate captain, a fan favorite, a happy Atlanta transplant, would give anything for the team that gave him a chance after a devastating injury.

And now, apparently, he's going to be a Winnipeg Jet instead.

They struggle in Winnipeg, sold-out crowds and an ecstatic community not quite enough to make up for the upheaveal, and well out of the playoff race, and after a not-quite-season there, Coulson finds himself traded for prospets and draft picks, just before the deadline.

****now** **

Which brings him to Malibu, to the Avengers, and to this defensive zone faceoff in a tie game with their Los Angeles rivals with 34 seconds left.

He hasn't played his best game, but that's not completely unreasonable after a long, early-morning flight and a new team. This deep in the third period, though, he's starting to get the hang of his new partner, a huge, blond, Scandinavian with the rather appropriate name of _Odinson_. He's not the most positionally sound defenseman Phil's ever played with, but he's impossibly solid, hard-hitting, and deceptively quick. The first line, Rogers-Barton-Banner, settles to take the faceoff in front of him, and Phil clears his mind of everything but the upcoming play.

Rogers wins the faceoff, and Phil's automatically counting down the seconds in his head as he eases backward to receive Odinson's pass behind the net. Twenty-eight seconds, and two forecheckers coming in hard, and Phil doesn't need to take his eyes off them to know what the rest of the ice looks like. One forechecker peels off to the side-boards, blocking an outlet to Banner, and Coulson feints right and darts left with the puck, the L.A. forward on his back. Rogers is well-covered, Banner can't shake his mark, Odinson's deep as an outlet, but they can't afford to keep the puck deep in their own zone with time running out-- and then Barton's broken open, streaking at an angle for the blue line, and Phil doesn't even have to think to hit him, the puck lofted expertly over the center's stick, splitting the defense with laser-like precision, and Barton catches it, cradles it on his stick and is suddenly all alone on net.

It's a goal, of course, Barton never misses, and suddenly Phil's being engulfed by a massive Swede, and Odinson's voice is thundering in his ear, "YOU ARE INDEED A WORTHY ADDITION TO THE AVENGERS, SON OF COUL!"

"Son of Coul?" Phil mouths to Banner as the celebrating forwards coalesce on them, and the winger just shrugs and grins as Phil finds himself with an armful of the league's leading scorer.

"I like you," Barton proclaims, his eyes bright and just a little manic, and Coulson pats his helmet and gives him a shove toward the bench so the third line can grind down the last 17 seconds to victory.

**\---**

The Avengers locker room, post-win, is not exactly what Phil had grown used to with the Thrasher-Jets. That team was frustrated, and it showed in their interactions with one another, in how quickly they all fled the rink. Coulson was with them in terms of sentiment, but considering he only had a cold apartment to return to in Winnipeg, he'd linger after games, watching hours of film. The isolation probably wasn't healthy, but it _did_ turn him into one of the smartest players in the league.

Malibu, on the other hand, seemed to embrace all aspects of their locker-room time. Once Coulson had given his requisite post-game interview to the local Fox Sports affiliate (Barton did a great job of getting open, I had the easy part; I'm just happy to help the team however I can; Winnipeg was a great town, and I want to thank all the fans there and in Atlanta for supporting me), his new teammates had sorted themselves out to lockers, pads mostly-stowed, and Phil's careful not to catch any bare feet with his skates as he settles on the broad, wooden bench, tossing his helmet up onto its shelf.

"Coulson, hi, good game, thanks for knocking Williams out of the crease that one time in the second, also you're welcome because I saved your ass more times, I'm Tony by the way, Stark." Coulson raises an eyebrow at the-- _his_ goalie, who's talking again before he can even say anything in reply. "So we usually have a postgame thing at my house, you should come, and you can stay if you want, my house has lots of rooms, I always keep the rookies too--"

"Ok!" Phil physically presses a hand over Stark's mouth, because he's pretty sure he won't stop talking otherwise. "Ok, I'll come, just...can I take a shower?"

The goalie beams, waving a hand at the shower room. "Be my guest!"

**\---**

Which is how Phil finds himself leaning gratefully into the corner of a supremely comfortable couch in a frankly ridiculous mansion, a beer in one hand, happy to learn about the habits of the Avengers through observation.

At least, most of them let him observe in peace. "So apparently," the evening's hero and game-winning goalscorer says, plopping down next to him, "Stark was a millionaire even _before_ he was a world-famous goalie."

"No kidding," Phil deadpans, glancing over at Barton and-- freezing.

"He's a pain in the ass," the winger's continuing, "but we need him, and he _does_ know how to throw a party. Hey, you ok?"

Phil blinks suddenly, looking down. "Yeah, I...yeah. Just..." he glances up one more time, grimacing a little. "I'm just a little tired. Long day," he adds, apologetically, and Barton nods and pats his leg, bouncing to his feet.

"No problem. Catch you later, ok? HEY TASHA!" he calls across the room, and Coulson watches for just a little longer than he probably should as Barton throw a casual arm around the shoulders of the team's head trainer.

The party winds down slowly, and while Stark is little too out of it to host, Rogers seems happy to show Phil to a guest bedroom deep in the mansion. "Tony's great, really," he says, flipping on the light, "just not the best at remembering formalities like where his overnight guests sleep."

"Thanks, Cap," Phil says absently, already looking forward to sleeping for about twelve hours when Rogers slips back into the hallway. He unzips his bag, stripping off his shirt, and starts when he hears a low whistle from behind him, whirling on a sheepish Clint Barton.

"Oh, sorry, I just-- um, that scar, it's..." Barton trails off, and Phil ducks his head self-consciously, one hand going automatically to the back of his neck. "I was there," he blurts out, finally. "You probably don't remember, but I was a rookie then, in Philly, the night--"

"I remember," Coulson murmurs, squaring his shoulders. "I mean, just tonight, I remembered. The eyes," he elaborates, quirking a smile, and is a little surprised that Barton flushes lightly. "When I came to on the ice, you were...watching me."

The forward takes a slow step forward, admitting softly, "It was scary. I thought you were dead, for a minute, and I was just a kid. Made something of an impact, seeing that happen."

"No pun intended, I'm sure," Phil quips automatically, and finds himself half-smiling along at Clint's wide grin.

"It's just, well, I've liked to watch you play since then, because you came _back_ after that, and...it's cool to play _with_ you, now." Clint's looking at him from under his lashes, blue eyes and a shy smile, and Phil is suddenly struck by a sense that league gossip is _way_ better than he ever gave it credit for.

"After tonight, I think it's my point total that's going to benefit," Coulson points out, and it's his turn to step up into Barton's personal space, fingertips hooking in the winger's belt.

Clint glances down, then up at Phil, grin widening as his hand moves up slowly to cup the back of Coulson's neck. "I heard you used to be married."

"Yeah, that didn't take," Phil admits, because maybe different goals for the future wasn't the _only_ reason he and Cindy split. Anything else he might've said is forgetten, though, because Barton suddenly presses up into a kiss, all wandering hands and pliant lips, his tongue probing open Phil's mouth, fingers curled into a fist against Coulson's belly and-- the door clicks open.

"Hey, Coulson, I-- ack!" Stark gives a strangled squeak, flinging his arm over his eyes and flailing with his other hand. "Jesus, Barton, in my _house_? Have you no shame?" The goalie uncovers his eyes, safely now, because Phil has seated himself heavily on the edge of the bed, head tilted back to stare resolutely at the ceiling, not at Clint _or_ Stark. "What, of course you don't, this is you. Ok, well, whatever, Coulson, Jarvis will feed you whenever you get up tomorrow, he's my butler. Barton, no food for you, I don't care how long you're here." He waves a hand spastically and leers (Coulson thinks, Stark could just be drunk), "Carry on."

Phil slowly covers his face with both hands, barely registering the fact that Barton's just giggling helplessly. "I am giving the _best_ first impressions," Coulson mutters, but he looks up as Barton straddles his lap, fingertips unerringly finding the bottom edge of his surgerical scar and tracing gently up the marred flesh.

"No, it's-- sorry about him, you know, goalies. Stark's sleeping with Cap, anyway, so don't--"

Coulson files that information away for later contemplation because _really?_ , but Clint's warmth is sort of permeating his whole body, and exhaustion is creeping over him, something that even the adrenaline of mutual attraction can't quite quell. Barton's fingers trail into his short hair, and Phil rests his forehead against Clint's collarbone, letting his eyes drift shut. "Sorry," he murmurs.

"Don't be," Clint sighs, but he doesn't move yet, his fingers finding a bruise low on Phil's ribs, tracing the circumferance gently enough to make Coulson shiver. "I'll, um, I'll let you get some rest. See you at the rink tomorrow?"

Phil nudges his head up a little, pressing his lips to Barton's neck, tongue darting against a pulsepoint. He tastes like the soap from the locker room showers, with a tinge of salt filling the hours since, and Coulson counts heartbeats automatically like the elite athlete he is and gives a low noise of interest. "Fast. What's your resting?"

Clint gives a breathy laugh, shifting on Phil's lap and admits, "I'm-- nervous."

The defenseman looks up, fingers stealing under his new teammate's shirt, head tilted slightly. "I make you nervous?"

"Jesus, Coulson," Clint huffs, smiling a little as he looks over Phil's shoulder. "I--I said I watched you play, because it was-- _inspiring_ , or whatever, but I...I've had this ridiculous _thing_ for you, for years, and you're an Avenger now, feeding me passes like that, and we're going to fucking _rock_ the playoffs, and you _kissed_ me--"

He's babbling, and Phil presses two fingers over his lips, drawing back a little. He's a high-profile player, and he's used to being the object of-- crushes, as it were, but not from his teammates, and certainly not from stars far bigger than him. It strikes him too, studying Barton, that the winger is young, five or six years younger than he himself. "Why _me_?"

Barton blinks for a moment, then starts to smile, posture relaxing. "You're a fucking badass, Coulson, you really gotta ask something like that?"

Phil clears his throat, lips easing against Clint's again, murmuring, "You don't even know me."

And Clint's blue eyes flash suddenly, mischievious and focused and _eager_ , and mutual attraction _is_ overriding fatigue after all, Phil's dick is taking a decided interest in proceedings as Barton presses him back into the mattress. "But I _want_ to."


End file.
